TV is on and volume set low. I am bustling for beds and bedtimestories. The Chosen One drones in and out. Ovations. Boos? Did I overhear grumbles? The dems have balls now? “…fill jobs Americans will not take” – go Brown Revolution. Personal Accounts. 2018. 2027. 2033. If he says 2046, I will take a shot, I promise myself. He doesn’t. “…ownership” – hey! I vote yes for that! “…culture of Life” -uh oh. Amendment! James Dobson in da hizzy! “…force of human freedom” – sounds sinister, if you put it that way. Saudi Arabia, Egypt: Lady Liberty is on the phone for you. “…to the Iranian people”? put on the coffee pot on ’cause we coming over. “…freedom from fear”.
Serendipitously, the bedtime poem is by S¬∑ndor WeÀÜres:
Oh for far-off monkeyland,
ripe monkeybread on baobabs,
and the wind strums out monkeytunes,
from monkeywindow monkeybars.
Monkeyheroes rise and fight
in monkeyfield and monkeysquare,
have monkeypatients crying there.
evil monkey pounds his thrawn
feet in monkeyprison yet.
Monkeymill is nearly made,
mills of monkeymayonnaise,
winning monkeymind wins praise.
Monkeyking on monkeypole
harangues the crowd in monkeytongue,
monkeyheaven comes to some,
monkeyhell for those undone.
Macaque, gorilla, chimpanzee,
baboon, orangutan, each beast
reads his monkeynewssheet at
the end of each twilight repast.
With monkeysupper memories
the monkeyouthouse rumbles, hums,
monkeyswaddies start to march,
right turn, left turn, shoulder arms —
reflected in each monkeyface,
with monkeygun in monkeyfist
the monkeys’ world the world we face.